Azrael nods. His icy blue eyes flash to Malicor, blazing with fury I’ve never seen. The night surrounding us grows darker, and a chill runs up my spine.
This time, when Azrael notices, he doesn’t hesitate. He pulls me to his chest, wrapping one arm around me protectively. Tilting my chin up to look at him, he whispers, “We’ll talk in a minute.” He cups my face, then drops his hand to his side once more.
“Thank you, Sylis. I owe you a favor.” Except he doesn’t sound thankful—his words are said through gritted teeth.
Of course he’s not thankful, I remind myself. Sylis and I interrupted whatever the two of them were doing. The silver-haired beauty still hasn’t said a word, but her eyes continue to sparkle full of triumph. I don’t have time to worry about the weight of the favor or the woman’s obvious gloating. Azrael’s chest rises just before a deep snarl rips from within it. “What were you doing with her, Malicor?”
I hold my breath, waiting to see if I’ll hear the details of my attempted kidnapping, and almost death, play out. Trembling in Azrael’s embrace, I draw a shaky breath, willing myself to listen. The foul creature only hisses at him in response, refusing to offer details of his intentions I’d personally rather not hear. A small smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. I think I might be grateful the creature refuses to speak.
“I should stuff flowers in your mouth and dump you in the river. Too bad your absence would be noticed,” Azrael huffs.
He looks at the silver-haired beauty and begs, “Zora, please. Is there any chance my payment covers this? Perhaps something simple, like a memory wipe?”
Azrael’s voice is desperate, almost pleading. I don’t understand why he needs to wipe the creature’s memory, and I can’t tell if he really believes that kind of magic is possible.
“Bring him inside,” her feminine voice replies.
As Azrael squeezes me tighter, his entire body relaxes against mine, and all the tension he was holding melts slowly away.
“Take him in and do whatever Zora says,” he tells Sylis.
So the woman’s name is Zora, and all three of them believe she’s going to just wipe his memory. My legs shake uneasily. Things are getting strange, and I suddenly have more questions than what I originally came here for.
Sylis strolls past us obediently, through the doorway, darkness following them. Before I can get a look inside, the door slams shut.
At last, we’re alone, just Azrael and me on the porch of the boxcar. The excitement fades, replaced by a tight knot of something heavier—dread.
Azrael breaks the silence. “Come sit and tell me why you came here, Mercy.”
Without waiting for a reply, he leads me to a hammock woven with thick braided rope, suspended from hooks on the top of the porch—giving the boxcar a sense of permanence. It looks well-used, like Zora has lived here longer than most. There are pillows littered on the hammock and a folded patchwork quilt. He helps me into it gently, then falls in next to me. Our combined weight curves the hammock into a soft, inescapable cocoon, pulling our bodies together. There’s not a single place I don’t brush up against his hardened muscles.
Azrael props himself onto his elbow, and I do the same. His free hand strokes my cheek softly, as if he’s afraid his touch will break me. I shiver, and he reaches for the quilt, pulling it over my bare legs.
“Are you warm enough?” he asks casually.
I nod my head, too tongue-tied from the desire creeping its way between my thighs.
“Mercy,” he whispers, eyes fixed on the patterns in the quilt instead of me, “you shouldn’t be here. This isn’t safe.”
My heart sinks. I didn’t come here to be reminded that we can’t be together or to listen to him tell me how much he confusingly wants me, but can’t have me.
Silence stretches between us until I work up the courage to respond. “I know.”
I try not to let the bitterness sour the notes of my response. Disappointment hangs between us.
“Then why did you come here?” he rasps, eyes finding mine, searching for answers.
We’re so close. Too close. The warmth of his breath and the smolder in his eyes cloud my ability to think. My words turn to nonsense on my lips when I try to respond—fumbling over myself, but quick to recover.
“It’s important, and I don’t think anyone else will believe me if I tell them,” I finally blurt.
He fights back the hint of amusement dancing in his eyes and tugging at his mouth, tracing his fingers over my arm as a distraction.
Azrael chuckles. “What could you tell me that I wouldn’t believe?”
“Promise not to tell anyone first?” I demand, suddenly nervous.
His fingers stop, and something like cool shadows grip my chin. He pauses, delving deep into my soul with his stare, and whispers the two simple words: “I promise.”
